


Just a Half a Drink More

by apanoplyofsong



Series: let your heart be light [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Bellamy find the perfect presents for each other while drunk. Or, they think they did, until the gifts actually arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Half a Drink More

**Author's Note:**

> This was written all in one go last night while sleep deprived, so have fun with that. Title from "Baby, It's Cold Outside."
> 
> Also, thank you to [Hannah](http://teamquiche.tumblr.com/%22) for letting me talk ridiculous headcanons with her, which, in this case, turned into ridiculous prose-y fic.

Bellamy stumbles into his apartment, exactly cognizant enough to lock the door behind him and fumble his keys into the small green dish resting on the table in the entryway that Clarke made in the one pottery class she took post-college. He heads towards his room, tripping over his feet and unwinding his scarf and jacket as he goes, catching the handle of the coat closet when he almost face-plants kicking off his boots.

The staff Christmas party is a wreck every year. Bellamy always walks in with a plan to stop after he reaches “delightfully tipsy,” but it turns out high school teachers really, _really_ need alcohol by the time finals end. After spending a semester having to structure every one of his AP history lesson plans around whether John fucking Murphy would be able to insert dick jokes, it was hard to deny himself a beer or ten. He knew he’d had too much to drink but, well, the shared cab ride with Clarke slumped half-conscious against his shoulder had only made him feel dizzier in the time it took to get to her duplex and there wasn’t enough time to start to sober before reaching his place.

Stripping down to his socks, boxers and undershirt, he leaves the rest of his suit in a pile somewhere near his desk and burrows face-first into the bed. Everything feels soft and warm and good, and that’s all he really wants. Clarke would probably feel soft and warm and good, too.

He giggles slightly the thought, under his breath and thrown back in his face by the pillow’s cotton, and it feels absurd enough to make him giggle again. Bellamy only ever giggles when he’s drunk, and it’s _fun_. He’s totally going to remind himself to giggle more, come morning. Probably. If he remembers this. He definitely will.

Clarke would be cute when she giggled. Clarke _is_ cute when she giggles. She’d probably be even cuter giggling in his bed, everything soft and warm and good and…

He flings his arm out, patting around the empty space on the bed next to him until his hand touches plastic. The laptop’s still open, and he counts to three as he builds up enough energy to flop to his left and look at it.

Pulling the computer closer, he tucks the giant white comforter under his arm and grins to himself as he takes four tries to click on Firefox successfully (sussecfully? successully? successulfly? whatever, close enough). He did still have Christmas shopping to do, but now?

He’s pretty sure he’s knows just the thing.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes up not feeling like a person. She knows, technically, she’s still alive, but she kind of wishes she weren’t. Her eyelids have apparently been made out of sandpaper and she can _feel_ her heartbeat echoing in her skull, being pounded out with sledgehammers. There’s a chance she drank straight rubbing alcohol last night, feeling this shitty.

Finally peeling open her eyes, she fights a wave of dizziness back enough to take the Advil and nurse her way through the entire bottle of water she miraculously had the foresight to leave on her rickety bedside table last night. She barely remembers getting home, has only a vague recollection of dozing in and out of sleep and humming Christmas carols in a cab with Bellamy, her neck nestled on something cozy.

She sighs at the ceiling and pulls herself out of the comfort of her duvet, patterned to mimic Pollock-style paint splatters in cool tones and the plushest thing she’s ever felt, dragging her feet to the bathroom so she can brush the stale acidic taste from her tongue before shuffling down to the kitchen for a pack of Saltines.

Walking around her condo slowly, crackers in one hand and more water in the other, Clarke tries to make sense of the rest of her night, waiting for the piecemeal memories to come to her like they always do. She trips over her heels twice, kicked next to the oven and under a barstool, and feels her face heat up in a flash of embarrassment and something else.

The heels are platformed and deep red and made her legs look fantastic in the lace tights and forest green dress she wore to the faculty party last night. They’re also the most uncomfortable pair of shoes she owns, and by the time she had them on for several hours, her feet were numb except for the sharp pain that shot through her toes whenever she shifted her weight. Between that and the alcohol, she had ended up stumbling down the street from the school cafeteria, the party budget too small to rent out an actual restaurant. Bellamy, weaving in front of her because he always insisted on seeing her home whenever she had a drink, had turned back to look at her and laughed.

“Come on, Princess,” he said, grabbing her hand and tugging lightly. His grin was wild and crooked, and she loved it.

She frowned as he bent into a squat. “What are you doing?” She was swaying slightly, but the sky was dark with clouds dusted across it and Bellamy’s curls were tossing in the breeze and it was taking a lot of energy to resist tracing her hand across the freckles on his cheek and into his hair.

“I’m giving you a ride! Duh.” He rolled his eyes in the way she’d seen his sister do the first time they met, and she’s distracted momentarily by giggling at the thought. He looks at her with his eyes wide and his head cocked and she remembers.

“Oh! Wait, what? You’re dunk! Fuck. You’re _drunk_ ,” she responded, tottering as she took a step towards him anyway.

“Yep. So are you. But my feet still work, and we’re two blocks from the closest place we can get a taxi. So, come on. I’m giving you a ride.”

Clarke huffed but braced herself on his shoulders, wide and firm, and jumped. His hands were hot as they wrapped around her thighs and they were all she could feel for the rest of the night.

She can still feel them now, if she thinks about it, and she tries to shut down that train of thought.

Instead, she turns to her computer, still propped up on the coffee table where she had been inputting final grades the day before, and finds the sticky notes full of to-do lists her keeps by her mousepad haphazard. On top is the list of people she needs to buy Christmas presents for—she has almost everyone covered, aside from a bottle of whiskey for her mother’s new boyfriend Marcus, a digital pen for Monty, and something for Bellamy. Except, now, Bellamy’s name has a giant check mark next to it, skidding through Octavia’s name above his and on into Lincoln’s above that, with a few exclamation points at the end for good measure.

She frowns, and tries to think. There’s a flash of something filtering through her head, just a strong sense of victory and general superiority over the world bathed in the glow of her laptop screen. Clarke checks her email, looking for a confirmation email for whatever she may have ordered, and, when she finds nothing, checks her account’s trash, which has apparently been emptied.

Honestly, she’s kind of relieved her drunk self apparently had an epiphany on what to get Bellamy. Clarke had been struggling over the decision more than she liked to admit, spending more time considering it than she had anyone else’s gift.

The thing is, it probably would have been easier if she knew how to define Bellamy, where he fits into her life. They met originally when Clarke had been assigned to room with Octavia, his sister, during Clarke’s sophomore year and Octavia’s first at Ark University. Clarke had been so busy trying to keep her head afloat on the pre-med track she hated that she barely saw him, despite the close relationship he and Octavia shared. When Clarke got an apartment off-campus her junior year and he moved one town over for his masters, aside from the occasional “hello” to each other when they were both in town and around Octavia, she didn’t see him for years.

Then she had changed her studies and ended up hired at Ark’s Shipton High School teaching both AP biology and the AP arts. When she walked in for her first school-wide teacher training, Bellamy Blake had been standing in a corner talking to a group of people she hadn’t met yet, laughing and content in a way she hadn’t seen him be before.

Once they got past the six months where he shot down everything she said in staff meetings because of the revelation Clarke’s mother was _the_ Abigail Griffin of the school board, they worked together surprisingly well. Bellamy put her back in touch with Octavia, whom she had fallen out of contact with during the chaos of student teaching in a double major, and their social groups had morphed into one; a mix of fellow teachers (Harper, the music director; Jasper from chemistry, and Bellamy’s best friend Miller who taught shop class), significant others (with Octavia came Lincoln, who got as excited as Clarke about every new art exhibit in town, albeit more quietly), and friends from everywhere else (Clarke had dragged along a reluctant Raven and an eager Wells, whenever he was in town).

That was three and a half years ago and, well…things have changed since then.

Because they both teach Advanced Placement classes and get along with each other better than Wallace or Tsing of AP English and AP chemistry and physics, respectively, they go together to the various training conferences and workshops the College Board holds to help them prepare, splitting up for their subject-specific work and staying by each other’s side during lunch and down time.

They’ve spent more and more time together outside of school, and more and more time together where it’s just the two of them.

Especially in the past year, since Clarke stopped dating Lexa and Bellamy broke up with Echo. They’ll spend their Friday nights on each other’s couches, watching episodes of Parks & Rec on Netflix or whatever’s on the Food Network while they grade papers and portfolios in comfortable silence, taking breaks to eat or heckle somebody on _Chopped_ or kick the other in the side so they can stretch out.

Lately, they haven’t always bothered with the schoolwork. Sometimes it’s just Clarke, her feet tucked under Bellamy’s thigh because her toes are always freezing with his thumb rubbing absently along her shin while they pass time together. Sometimes they’ll see each other again on Saturday, or even Sunday, meeting for beers or watching a movie with the group.

Clarke may not be the best at relationships, but she’s not dumb. She knows this hasn’t been anything yet, nothing other than two people growing closer to each other and learning comfort in their presence. But, she also knows this could _become_ something, that she wants it to become something, and that’s why nothing had felt adequate when it came to Bellamy’s Christmas gift. Nothing had been the right touch of familiar and unintimidating that their balance spoke of.

So, if drunk Clarke was as confident as she remembers ordering that present? She wasn’t going to question it. She can have faith in herself. So she closes her email, doesn’t bother checking her credit card for a potential record of the transaction, and goes to fry some bacon.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy doesn’t remember anything after he gets to his bed. He knows he ordered Clarke’s Christmas present, something he had been stressing over because he had no idea how to capture the multidimensionality of that woman, how to show that he’s here for her in a bigger way than he’s ever felt for someone besides Octavia before (and his emotions towards Clarke are _definitely_ not familial, as a few choice dreams could easily testify) without coming across too strongly in case she startles or doesn’t feel the same. He had apparently felt it necessary to leave himself three separate notes informing himself that he “ORDEDRED CLARKE’S GIFT!!!!”, including one in which he rambled across a third of his bathroom mirror in dry erase marker, reassuring himself that he had _checked_ and _double checked_ that the gift would be in just before December 20, when the group had agreed to exchange gifts before Monty and Miller left town to visit the former’s parents across the country. Otherwise, he’d left no trace of what the present actually _was_ , just that it existed and was apparently great.

And, well, he was stuck, so he decided to trust it. Drunk Bellamy needed to pick up the slack for once, anyway. If it had all been some elaborate ruse to lull him into a sense of complacency regarding the Christmas present of the woman he sort of completely adored and he was left empty-handed when the 20th arrived, he knew there was a pastels set Clarke had been eyeing at Anya’s Supply Co. that would do the trick, even if it wasn’t quite perfect.

So he waits. Most days he spends with Clarke, soaking up her light. He tries to memorize the way she looks with flour on her nose, making sugar cookies in his kitchen that they decorate late into the night until she passes out curled into his side. He kisses her forehead as he tucks her into the spare bed, the one he nominally keeps for Octavia but that has housed Clarke many nights before. He makes himself go to his own room, doesn’t think about the weight of her warmth tucked under his arm. Clarke plots routes past the best Christmas lights and Bellamy goes along willingly, watching the bulbs reflect off the gold of her hair as her breath puffs a halo around her head. She catches his eye at one point and smiles this soft, tender thing that makes him feel like his tongue’s suddenly lodged in his throat and he hopes this present is good because he really, really wants this.

The 19th comes and he has no present in hand. He debates buying the pastels now but he figures the store will be open the next afternoon anyway, and Anya isn’t exactly known for her generous returns policy. He can wait. He’s been waiting, for a lot of things. One more day won’t kill him.

The next day he spends slightly frazzled, keeping the volume on the TV and his phone low so he can’t miss the buzzer and wrapping the presents he got for everyone else back in October and November. He runs late getting ready, of course, so that he’s only leaving a 5 minute cushion to make it to Anya’s or arrive at Clarke’s incredibly late. When he opens the apartment door, fabric grocery bag overflowing with gifts in one hand, he almost runs directly into the UPS delivery man.

“Oh, thank God.”

The man looks bored, just continues chewing his gum as he holds out the small electronic pad and stylus for Bellamy to sign, then hands over the package, maybe 5 inches deep and 12 inches long. Bellamy’s momentarily concerned he bought Clarke some kind of weird textbook, which would fucking suck as far as gifts go for high school teachers who see enough of textbooks, but when he takes the box it’s light, return address offering no clues as to its contents. He turns back to his apartment, determined to use the 3 minutes and 32 seconds he has left to wrap this present spectacularly.

His eyes search over his living room as his hands work at the packaging tape, cataloguing the explosion of wrapping paper and torn bags that litter the floor, searching for something whole enough to be used. When he breaks through the cardboard and looks down, though—miracle of miracles—the contents are gift-wrapped, the size of a standard garment box with shiny red paper and a ribbon that curls in plumes down the front.

Bellamy could kiss his drunk self right now. He fits the box into his bag, grabs his keys, and runs out the door.

 

* * *

 

“No.” Clarke is standing next to her bed, staring down at the newly-arrived, newly-offending package with her hands on her hips and her brow furrowed.

“No, no, no. There’s no way. _There’s NO way!_ ”

She realizes she’s yelling out loud to herself, but what else is there to do in this situation? The Christmas party with her friends starts in less than an hour, she’s neither showered nor dressed, still has food to stick in the oven and pizza to order and no time to go out and find Bellamy a replacement gift for this _thing_ she apparently ordered. That she ordered _for him_? No, she’ll think about that later. Much later.

Clarke hadn’t been worried about Bellamy’s gift, too busy enjoying the easy sweetness that came with spending days during the break with him, and she doesn’t have a back-up plan in place for something like this. She’ll just…figure out what to get him, and give it to him late. He’ll understand. He’ll have to understand. Because she can’t—there’s no way—she’s not giving him—

She’s never drinking again.

 

* * *

 

The party has been easy and fun, as their group usually is. Food’s been eaten, drinks have been drunk, and gifts have been exchanged as people desire across the evening. Bellamy already has three different biographies stacked next to him, and he’s excited. He's warm from a cup of wassail, the room is filled with people he cares about, and he could happily stay in this moment for a little longer. The only gift he has left to give is Clarke’s.

“Hey, Bell? Can I talk to you for a second? In my room.” Clarke’s suddenly next to him, speaking low into his ear and looking uncharacteristically nervous. He’s curious, and slightly concerned, but nods and gets up to follow her, present in hand.

There’s a small box on her bed, comparable in size to the one he carries, and she’s strung lights up around a small bonsai tree she keeps on her desk, but otherwise the room looks as it always does: messy and airy and perfectly Clarke. She closes the door behind them.

“What’s up?” Bellamy asks. She’s chewing her bottom lip and it’s both distracting and telling, since he usually only sees her do that particular nervous tick in meetings with the superintendent.

Clarke shifts on her feet slightly, huffs, and runs a hand through her hair before facing him head-on.

“Okay, there’s not a great way to say this, but I think you’ll understand? I don’t have your present. I ordered you something and when it came in…well, it wasn’t what I thought. So, you’re going to have a present, and I’ll make sure it’s great, I promise, but I just…I don’t have it on me. I’m sorry.”

He cracks a small smile and puts his free hand on her shoulder. “Clarke, that’s what you’re worried about? That’s fine, I don’t care. Don’t worry about it.” He rubs his hand down her arm and back up again and she leans into it slightly. “Here, I have your present, though. I figured I could give it to you while we were talking anyway.”

Clarke smiles at him, eyes the darkest blue and grateful, and takes the box from his hand. He shifts his weight back on his heels and tucks his hands into his pockets, watching her carefully while she unwraps it, pulling off the ribbon then making one long tear in the paper. She pops the box open slightly, the edge facing him still taped down, and her face immediately flushes a deep scarlet, lips dropping open briefly before quickly biting them back up.

He waits, nervous now and trying to gauge her reaction, which is a lot harder when he’s not actually sure what’s in the box. Finally, she makes a choked noise, then falls back against her bed laughing, the sound caught somewhere between desperation and mirth, the box lax in her hands.

“What?” Bellamy asks, suddenly very sure he should be wary of whatever the hell he did. “What is it?”

He edges towards her and takes the box from her hands, lifting up the opened edge and for a second sees only red. His brain takes in other details more slowly: it _is_ red, but it’s also sheer and strappy with cups of satin topped with a thin line of something white and fuzzy. With matching panties.

His skin feels like it’s suddenly on fire.

He bought Clarke fucking _Christmas themed lingerie_. A goddamn Santa negligee!

Drunk Bellamy was a massive, massive dick.

But, apparently, a dick who knew what he wanted.

 

* * *

 

Clarke gained her composure enough to watch Bellamy’s face as he closed the box and put it down gently on the bed, as if it might somehow cause more damage if he mishandled it, and sat stiffly down a little bit away from her. Shell-shocked. That was probably the only fitting descriptor for how he looked. Face slack but eyes wide, limbs hanging numbly off his torso. She lets him gather his thoughts.

“Clarke, I am so, so sorry.” His voice, more earnest than she has ever heard, cracks on her name and he reaches towards her hand tentatively, uncertain of the rules now. She lets him have it, reciprocates when he squeezes her fingers.

“I…I ordered it the night of the staff party, after I got home and…Jesus fucking Christ, I should have checked it, I should have, I’m sorry, but I just got it in as I was leaving today and I had been so excited when I was drunk over finding something that I just assumed that it was fine, even though I couldn’t remember it.” He presses the fingers of his free hand against the bridge of his nose, rubbing slightly. “Which, I definitely shouldn’t have assumed. Because drunk me is definitely a massive asshole.”

At this she huffs a laugh and tugs his hand to get him to look at her, which he does, sheepish and wide-eyed.

“I’m so sorry, Clarke. Really.”

“Bellamy…it’s okay. It’s, uh, it’s actually a little funny?”

Something between hurt and disbelief flashes over his face, and he asks, wry, “Really?”

“Really.” She reaches behind her to where the box she had abandoned earlier in the evening was resting atop the mattress. “You know how I said I ordered you something?” Bellamy nods, and she wets her lips and continues. “I also apparently did this the night of the staff party. And, well…this is what came in today.”

She places the box in his lap and folds her hands back into her own, chewing her lip and watching his face.

When he opens it, he flushes slightly, but then tilts his head, considering her, and lets out one loud, short laugh before sobering.

“You…?”

Clarke nods. “I bought the exact same thing.” She pokes his side. “As _your_ Christmas present.”

“Well, you do know me well.” He’s smirking but his eyes remains uncertain, insecure.

Clarke takes a deep breath and dives.

“I do care about you, Bellamy.” She nods towards the box still sitting in his lap. “Apparently being drunk made me a bit more direct about what I wanted, but it’s not just that. I like you. I maybe more than like you, actually.”

A smile’s growing on his face, small and careful and pulling at the reigns.

“Really?” He sounds like a kid, Christmas too good for him to believe, and she can’t help the rush of endearment that comes in response or the way her lips tilt up.

“Really.”

He reaches towards her then, Clarke watching his hand move to cradle her face in slow motion, nuzzling into his palm when it gets there, and then turning so she can meet his gaze, bright and heavy and adoring, until the last second when his lips touch hers and their eyes both fall closed.

And it’s _Bellamy_ , his lips and tongue and teeth moving against hers, his nose brushing her cheek as he tilts to open their mouths wider, and that makes all of her body buzz with something far past joy.

Then he leans back just enough to murmur “I maybe more than like you, too,” and all she can do is wind her arms around his neck, weaving her fingers through his hair, and pull him closer.

 

* * *

 

Later, after everyone else has gone and Bellamy has volunteered to help Clarke clean up, he hears her call his name from her room, where she’d gone to change out of her party clothes. He tips the plastic cups and cutlery he had in hand into the trash and heads towards the stairs.

When he turns the corner approaching her bedroom, his steps slow until he’s standing in front of Clarke.

Her door is open just enough for him to see the brilliance of her blonde hair tumbling around her face in large waves, meeting the place where a strap of red satin cuts across the exposed creamy skin of her clavicle, the rest of her hidden. Bellamy lets himself take her in, slowly, methodical, marking each freckle and divot until he rakes his eyes back up to hers where she’s smirking at him.

“I did promise your present would be great, didn’t I?”

He grins and steps towards her, pushing the door open enough to slide a hand around her waist. “Yeah, you did.”

They both agree it’s their best Christmas yet.

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in some world where you don't get shipping notifications when an order ships, or where they went directly to spam. Because that makes it easier.  
> I blog fic-related things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
